moonirea

those words unsaid
          to prose ahead
          the silent nor the loud
          no one may hear 
          a broken piece
          as it is written down
          
          a writer battling 
          her own one's self
          a single paper 
          and a pen
          
          behind those crumpled papers
          the one's not getting read
          the pen losing its own ink
          she lost it once ahead
          
          the tiny piece of paper
          as thin as her heart
          here comes her own ink of blood
          and the teardrops falling fast
          
          and i will keep on writing
          these metaphors in my head
          will be voicing out by poetry
          if the world won't let me talk
          
          i know how i did bleed to death
          the sensitivity that i sense and have
          by this aching heart
          and i'll continue writing
          for this is my own art
          
          — moonirea
          
          Happy #WorldPoetryDay
          
          

moon child, your dust is in the air. bright and hopeful. unravel the seams of the sky and shake the stars off. it may or may not hold the answers but i know you will see every shard will lay a path to your many shapes and forms. 
          
          rooting for you to find everything you ever yearn and hope for, buwan. labyu. 

“ we are writers, my love. we don't cry, we bleed on paper.” 
          
          — a.y